Unconditional: A Coming of Age Romance Novel (Always)

by Cherie M Hudson

  Silence answered my plea.

  “Umm,” I called, suddenly aware my wet skin was making me feel a little chilly. “I can make it worth your while. I’ve got a whole bag of Hershey’s Kisses in my suitcase I’m willing to give you.”

  Silence again. Followed by the sound of footsteps moving closer to my cubicle door.

  Closer. Closer.

  And then a deep, male voice with a sinfully sexy Australian accent I knew all too well said, “I’m not remotely interested in Hershey’s Kisses, American girl.”

  Raphael Jones was my savior? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  The Argument about Copulating Koalas

  Walking among close to a hundred strangers in just a skimpy lace bra and equally skimpy pair of lace panties is strangely liberating. It helps when said hundred people are similarly attired, fifty percent—ish—of the male variety. It also helps when your mom is on the other side of the world. God, what would she say if she knew what I was up to?

  Taking a sip of my drink—some potent concoction I’d been handed on descending the stairs that included vodka and coconut rum, going by the kick—I weaved through the crowd. I don’t normally do alcohol, mainly because it fucks with my Parkinson’s medication, hence the sipping. But better to be seen with a glass in hand than not. In this case, the glass was a plastic stein with the words I Love a Sunburnt Country As Well, Dorothy printed on the side. No idea what that meant. I really needed to do some Googling. After the party I was definitely opening my laptop and getting my cellphone to work on the Australian network.

  Beside me, Heather did what Heather seemed to do best—talk, gossip and talk. She had me giggling into my barely consumed drink more than once, mainly at her acerbic commentary on the state of one guy or another. I was learning quickly that despite the accents and adoration of flip-flops—called thongs over here, thongs, of all things—Australian college guys were the same as American ones. Party animals itching to get laid. Or at least feel up as many college girls as they could.

  Four times in the last hour, I’d had to shrug off an overly enthusiastic greeting. I wasn’t pissed. I had come to the party in my underwear, after all. But there’s only so many times you can feel strange fingers on the top of your boob before you have to take a stand. Especially when most of those fingers were attached to inebriated bodies.

  Hey, it was a college party, after all. I mean, uni party.

  “Maci, Maci, Maci.” Heather clamped her hand around my wrist, yanking me to a halt. “Look who’s just arrived. Your knight in shining armor.”

  Frowning at my Australian BFF, I tried to tug my wrist free. “My what?”

  She threw a nod over my shoulder, her grin directed behind me.

  Twisting to see who she was talking about, a strange sensation telling me I already knew, I bit back a curse.

  Raph Jones was descending the stairs to the main party area dressed only in a pair of black satin boxer shorts and a loose black satin robe left open, both of which revealed a body that made Chris Hemsworth’s look wimpy by comparison. I know, how is that even possible, right? It was. Raph Jones, arrogant son-of-a-bitch douchebag, was proving that unquestionably.

  Christ, he was sexy hot.

  My breath hitched. My pulse slammed hard and fast in my throat.

  Dammit, and I was having so much fun.

  Grinding my teeth, I looked away. But not before Raph’s arrogant son-of-a-bitch gaze clashed with mine. For a split second. Long enough for my breath to catch. Long enough for him to check me out—from head to toe and back to head again.

  Long enough for my nipples to harden at that inspection.

  Fuck.

  Snaring Heather’s hand in mine, I began walking. Dodging the laughing, giggling, dancing, drinking crowd. Heading in the opposite direction of Raph.

  “We’re in a rush, are we?” Heather chuckled. “Where we going?”

  “Somewhere away,” I answered.

  “Out of the party?” Heather’s grin was knowing. What she thought she knew, I had no idea. If she thought I was flustered by Raph Jones, she was wrong.

  Shut up.

  “Just out,” I ground out through gritted teeth. “Not here.”

  “Do I need to remind you we’re in our undies?”

  I stopped. Let out a ragged breath. Scrunched up my face and balled my fist. Damn it, she was right. Strutting about in my underwear was all well and good inside during a party, but outside of Mackellar House was Sydney. Not just the University of Sydney, but Sydney. Mackellar House was situated in a residential suburb, which meant beyond the door and down the sidewalk to the left were homes. With families living in them.

  I guess I could turn right and go storming through the university grounds, but did I really want to do that at nine p.m. at night? In my Victoria’s Secret?

  No.

  I was staying in the party.

  With Raph.

  Yay.

  I should probably point out why I’m so…flustered by him. He did go get Heather when we were in the bathroom together, and Heather did deliver me a towel, but when I finally emerged from my shower cubicle that afternoon—the Australians call afternoons arvos, by the way—I found Raph waiting for me, his butt perched on one of the basins, his arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other.

  I hadn’t been expecting that.

  He’d studied me, that enigmatic light in his eyes again. The one I couldn’t decide was friendly or suspicious.

  I’d jutted out my chin in response to his silent scrutiny, held out my arms a little and curtsied. “Do I meet with your approval, Mr. Jones?”

  Why I’d provoked him, I’m still not sure. I think it had something to do with the whole hot-cold thing he had going with me.

  He’d pushed himself away from the basin and strode forward. “We have a habit of bumping into each other in bathrooms, don’t we, American girl?”

  I’d stood my ground. Jutted my chin out some more—I was in serious danger of dislocating my neck at that point. “No bumping this time. You were the one who came in here. Twice. Perhaps you’re stalking me?”

  My jibe hadn’t stop him closing the distance between us. I’d hoped it would. Smug bastard or not, he was still causing my body to do strange things when he was close to me. Or looking at me. There in the bathroom, both were taking place. “I’m not a fan of stalkers.”

  I’d swallowed. Caught my bottom lip with my teeth. Caught myself catching my bottom lip with my teeth and stopped myself. What kind of twenty-two-year-old still chewed their bottom lip when facing down a hotter-than-hot guy?

  “What are you a fan of?” I’d asked. Suffice to say, my heart was racing like an out-of-control NASCAR at that moment. I wasn’t one-hundred percent certain, but I suspected we were flirting with each other. In an edgy kind of way.

  He’d drawn to a halt directly in front of me, so close the toes of his shoes brushed my bare feet. “Do you want me to say ‘you’?”

  Feeling way too nervous, I’d licked my lips. “I don’t know what I want you to say.” “If I say I want you to kiss me, will you?”

  I’d stared up at him, my heart beating a mile a minute in my throat. “I—”

  “Are you in here, Jones?” a male voice had shouted, just as the bathroom door swung open with a jolting slam. “Ah, there you are. You playing pool with us or—ah, the Yank! Heya, how you going?”

  I’ve never seen anyone move away as quickly as Raph had then. When Mr. Info Dump from the room three doors down from mine came barreling into the communal bathroom, Raph had damn near leapt backward like a cat who’d just realized its tail was burning.

  I’d blinked at the sudden change, at the unsettled disparagement on his face. At the way he’d hurried across to Info Dump—what was his name again? Heather had told me. Umm, Ben McDonald? McNamara? Something like that? Macca for short?—without even shooting me another glance.

  “C’mon,” he’d said, pushing past Macca. “Double or nothing on thi
s game.”

  Macca had cocked him a curious look, shrugged and then given me a grin. “You coming to the party tonight? We’ll see you there, ’eh?”

  And before I could say no—there wasn’t a hope in hell I was going to be anywhere Raph Jones was going to be—both guys left the bathroom and I was alone.

  Now do you see why I was so flustered by seeing Raph at the party? The bastard son-of-a-bitch douchebag was quite happy to flirt with me, stick his tongue down my throat when we were alone, but whoa, if there was anyone actually around, witnessing it, no, I was a leper. A shaky one.

  Beside me, Heather chuckled. “I don’t know if your plan was to get away from Raph or not, but he’s following us.”

  I shot a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, he was only a few feet behind. About a dozen girls in skimpy bras and thongs—the kind that go up your butt crack, not on your feet—were swooning over him as he walked. Two were trying to slip their hands around his biceps. He scowled and dodged their efforts. I’m ashamed to say, I was both jealous and happy. Talk about being a conflicted mess.

  Our eyes clashed again, for another one of those brief seconds that go on forever, before I looked away and turned a sharp right, dragging Heather with me. Oh yeah, I was smooth.

  “Is this some kind of weird game of Catch and Kiss I’m not aware of?” she asked, a grin in her voice. “Or are you playing Tag You’re It? Oh, is this a social experiment you’re conducting about how easy it is to make Australian guys follow you around? Hey, he’s still on our tail. He’s trying not to look like he is, but he is. Wow, what did you two do in the bathroom after I left? He keeps looking at you.

  “Oh, and now Macca’s handed him a drink and he’s watching you over the rim of it. Hee, he just told Shelly White to go away. That’s huge. Every guy here wants to bonk Shelly White. She’s a swimsuit model who’s studying—oh hi, Brendon. I didn’t know you were coming tonight? Maci, this is Brendon Osmond, the uni gym’s fitness manager.”

  I jerked my attention from the crowd around me—I’d been studiously not looking over my shoulder at Raph—back to Heather.

  Heather and the tall guy standing beside her wearing a pair of bright-red pajama pants. The tall guy with muscles so exquisite my mouth began to water.

  Hello, Brendon.

  Brendon Osmond flashed a friendly smile at me, held out his hand and said, “G’day.”

  I gaped up at him.

  His smile turning into a grin, he took my hand—which I’d apparently extended to him. “Maci. How you going?”

  “Good,” I said, finding my voice. What the hell was it with this country? Raphael Jones looked like a sexier Chris Hemsworth, and now here was a guy who looked like a sexier, blonde Robert Downey Jr. complete with Iron Man body and devilish glint in his blue eyes.

  Brendon’s eyebrows rose. “American? Or Canadian? Sorry, I can never tell the difference with the accents.”

  “American,” I answered. Damn, his fingers felt nice wrapped around mine. Warm and firm and steady. “I’m from Plenty, Ohio. But my dad was Australian, if that counts. I can even say g’day if you like. G’day.”

  Brendon bent at the waist a little in a playful bow. “That wasn’t too shabby, Plenty, Ohio. Welcome to Oz.”

  I smiled. “Thank you, Uni Fitness Manager.”

  He chuckled. “Call me Brendon. Not such a mouthful.”

  I grinned back. “Call me Maci. Not so geographically specific.”

  He laughed, dropping my hand. “Done. So tell me, are you studying here or just visiting?”

  “Studying,” I answered. Hmmm, I think I liked it better when he was holding my hand. “I’m here on a scholarship offered by my college to study the effects of global warming on native wildlife, specifically the koala population.”

  “Koala population? That’s left of field for an American, isn’t it? Even one with an Aussie for a dad?”

  I laughed. “I’ve never been one for conventional thinking.”

  Brendon raised his eyebrows again. Opened his mouth and—

  “There is no effect on the koala population,” a familiar male voice with its unsettling Australian accent said behind me.

  My throat constricted, trapping my breath. My lips tingled as if they remembered just what the owner of that voice was capable of doing to them. My sex constricted, damn it.

  “G’day, Raph,” Brendon said, offering his hand over my shoulder. “Haven’t seen you in the gym for a while.”

  Another hand appeared beside my head, wrapped around Brendon’s in a firm grip and then withdrew. “I’ve been in Delvania. Family thing. Just got back today.”

  The warm presence at my back told me Raph Jones was right there. Right behind me. So close I could feel his heat seeping into my body. So close I could feel the smooth skin of his bare chest brush the back of my shoulder.

  For a giddy moment, my head swam.

  Thankfully, Brendon laughed, the sound incredibly relaxed and calm. “The curse of family, ’eh? Forcing you to skip the country for a while and escape the madness of the media attention. Must be hell.”

  “You could say that,” Raph’s voice rumbled from behind.

  Beside me, Heather watched both guys, her gaze flicking back and forth as if she were watching a tennis match. I couldn’t help but notice there was an almost frenzied excitement in her eyes. Something was going on in her head. Something she found thrilling. I didn’t know whether to be suspicious…or laugh.

  “So, Jones.” Brendon took a drink from the bottle in his hand—mineral water. What every good, muscular gym fitness manager drank, no doubt. Did I say muscular already? “Tell us why you think there’s no effect on the koala population due to global warming. You know much about copulating marsupials? I thought your major was in biology or animal husbandry.”

  “I’m studying a Bachelor of Animal and Veterinary Bioscience,” Raph answered. “I grew up on a cattle station—what you Americans call a ranch—on which there is a very large koala colony. I can tell you firsthand, the global warming situation isn’t impacting their numbers at all.”

  Unable to stop myself, I swung around to give him a narrowed-eyed stare. “Oh really?”

  The look he gave me was steady. Condescending. “Really.”

  “Then what is then?” I shot back.

  “Human stupidity,” he answered.

  “And on that note,” Brendon said, a hint of humored amusement in his voice, “it’s time to change the subject. I’m sure there’s a guideline that states politics and science can’t be discussed while dressed only in underwear.”

  At my side, Heather giggled. “I’ve heard of that guideline.”

  Raph’s stare didn’t leave my face. “But of course,” he continued, as if Brendon hadn’t uttered a word, “you, being an American, would be an expert on Australian native wildlife.”

  If it was possible—and until then I didn’t think it was—I narrowed my eyes even more. “Me being an American?” My heart kicked up a notch. Or maybe it was my ire. Yeah, it was pretty much up there. “Because it’s not remotely conceivable an American could have knowledge on something as precious to you Aussies as koalas? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Actually—” Brendon stepped a little closer to us both, filling the right side of my peripheral vision with his towering, sculpted form, “—now that I think about it, that guideline isn’t a guideline, it’s a rule. Strict one.”

  “I’m saying—” Raph’s stare turned to a frown, and once again, he acted like Brendon hadn’t made a sound, “—it’s typical of you Americans to think you know all the answers about the—”

  “Koala facts,” I said, cutting him short. I was keeping my cool. Honestly. Well, sort of. “There are fewer than eighty-thousand koalas in the wild in Australia today, possibly as few as forty-three thousand, compared to the millions thought to exist before European settlement. In 2012, on advice from the Threatened Species Scientific Council, the koala was listed as a threatened species.”
<
br />   Raph opened his mouth.

  “Since 1788,” I continued without letting him say a word, counting off my second point on my finger, “when Australia was first settled by Europeans, nearly sixty-five percent of the koala forest in Australia has been cleared, over 116 million hectares. The remaining thirty-five percent, approximately forty-one million hectares, remains under threat from land clearing for agriculture, urban development and unsustainable forestry. All contributing factors to global warming.”

  Raph’s frown turned black. He obviously didn’t like being argued with. Or stood up to in public.

  “Koala populations are also being decimated by chlamydia,” I went on, index finger pressed to the tip of my ring finger, “a disease exacerbated by stress. Koalas are increasingly under stress due to habitat loss and destruction.”

  The frown grew darker.

  I rammed my index finger to my pinkie finger, refusing to blink in the face of that menacing glare. “Habitat loss is the greatest problem facing koalas today. Habitat loss caused not only by land clearing, but by the rise in bushfires due to the increasing number of electrical storms. Storms that are growing in intensity and number due to the planet-wide changing weather patterns and rising temperatures, not to mention diseases like dieback in eucalyptus, which causes the trees to die. Dieback, by the way, is on the rise due to warmer climates in Australia, a symptom of…” I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to provide the answer.

  He didn’t. Heather did. “Global warming?” she offered.

  “Global warming,” I echoed, giving Raph a humorless smile. “And last fact of the night, but most definitely not the argument, Australia has one of the highest land-clearing rates in the world. Over eighty percent of koala habitat has already been cleared, reducing the viable mating and living areas. A forest can only have a certain number of koalas living in it, referred to as a forest’s carrying capacity. Most koala populations are now in a dire state. The Australian Koala Foundation estimates that as a result of the loss of their habitat, around four thousand koalas are killed each year by dogs and cars alone.”